


Puzzlebox

by standbygo



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bargaining, Fandom Trumps Hate, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Horror, M/M, Psychological Horror, S3 and S4 does not exist, Supernatural Elements, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: A love story with horror. A horror story with a happy ending.





	1. Sinnerman, where you going to run to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscordantWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/gifts).

> This is my contribution for Fandom Trumps Hate for DiscordantWords. 
> 
> There are five chapters; I will post one every other day, with the last chapter posting on October 31.
> 
> Although this story is 'officially' horror, I promise a happy ending.

It wasn’t new, this feeling.

Sherlock couldn’t remember exactly when this started. It would happen at odd times, but most reliably it was times like this, when John came home. The scrape of the key in the lock, perhaps a muted greeting with Mrs Hudson, tenor and soprano doing a soft duet of politeness in the hallway. Then the sound of John’s shoes, with the creak of the ninth step announcing the half-way point.

Those sounds produced a strange combination of symptoms in Sherlock. A slight leap in heart rate, a flush of heat radiating from his chest to his neck and ears and cheeks, a prickling of sweat in the palms.

Sherlock had noted the cause and effect of the stimulus to the reaction long ago, but for a frustratingly long time he was unable to define the _ reason _ for it. It didn’t happen when Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, for instance. Something similar often happened when Lestrade came, with the promise of a new case, but that produced a very different set of reactions. Why John?

It took Sherlock months, years to figure it out. When he did, he was so appalled at himself he tried to suppress everything, but it just got worse.

When he returned from the dead, and John was with Mary, Sherlock thought he could put these feelings behind him – to no avail. During the period when John was not living at 221B, Sherlock would find himself craning to hear any evidence of John’s arrival or even his presence in the flat. It interfered with his work, and caused endless frustration. To Sherlock’s consternation, this was not lessened when John moved back in. He spent his nights grinding his teeth in frustration while John slept in the room above.

And yet inaction needed to be his action; he feared that any approach on that level would ruin the friendship they had worked so hard to repair.

But then everything had changed two weeks ago. Fifteen days, seven hours, and thirty nine minutes ago, to be exact.

_The case very nearly careened out of control. During a chase, John and Sherlock had split up in an attempt to trap the murderer and push him into the Met’s hands. Instead, the murderer had cornered Sherlock, alone, on the Millennium Bridge. He had got his hands around Sherlock’s throat, and had Sherlock most of the way off the bridge before John caught up. He had yanked the man off Sherlock and beaten him to a pulp; Sherlock had to pull him off when he realized that the Met was approaching, for fear of them arresting the wrong man. _

_Later, back at Baker Street, Sherlock had sat at the kitchen table while John checked for damage to his neck and throat. The flat was quiet, the only sounds being muffled midnight traffic from the street. John was silent, his mouth set straight and lipless. _

_Sherlock suddenly realized that John’s hands had stopped, no longer tracing the bones and tendons of his neck with their clinical touch, but were resting softly along the large veins on the sides of his throat. The moment hung there, unmoving and fragile. _

_“John?” _

_John’s eyes had been staring at him, but with a faraway look. His hands did not move. _

_“John?” _

_John startled minutely, as if waking up, and looked at Sherlock. He licked his lips. _

_"Sherlock, I…when you…hmm. I – I can’t. Not any more. I hope that – I just hope that – are you…” _

_Sherlock looked up at him, his brow knotting in confusion. John’s hands shifted, and his thumbs traced Sherlock’s cheekbones. Sherlock’s heart began to hammer harder than it had done on the bridge. As if in a dream, he lifted his hands and placed them gently, so gently, over John’s. _

_“John, please,” he said, not sure exactly what he was asking for. _

_John nodded once, sharply, as though answering a question. Then he bent down and kissed Sherlock. _

“Hey.”

Sherlock blinked himself back to the present. He looked up at John, who was standing by the table at Sherlock’s side, smiling shyly.

No, the rapid heartbeat and flushing face wasn’t new, but now he could do something about it.

“Hello,” Sherlock smiled up at John.

There was a microsecond of hesitation, then John laid his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, leaned down and kissed him. Sherlock read a multitude of thoughts in John’s mind during that microsecond:

_Is this all right? Can I kiss him? Would he be offended? Am I interrupting him? But this is what we do now – isn’t it? _

That first kiss (fifteen days, seven hours, and forty two minutes) had been a breakthrough in their relationship, but there was something that was still not quite right. This was Sherlock’s first relationship, and clumsiness was predominant. More than once their teeth had clacked together painfully, and there was a headbutt or two that neither of them acknowledged. Sherlock felt seventeen years old again, stumbling and stupid, but enjoying the sensations and the pervasive joy of having John in his arms.

And yet, John seemed to be holding himself back.

Perhaps he was letting Sherlock set the pace. Perhaps he was nervous about making a foray into physical love with a man. Perhaps he was having doubts.

And, truth be told, Sherlock was holding himself back as well. He had no idea what pace was appropriate for a relationship. Sherlock had never had sex with anyone, let alone another man; he had no idea how to begin, how to make the overture.

As for doubts, Sherlock had no doubt about his feelings for John. It was odd, and unfamiliar, yet completely right. It was like sleeping in a soft bed when you were used to a hard cot. Like learning to wear glasses.

So while the sensations Sherlock experienced when John came into a room weren’t new, uncertainty and hesitation were still inhabiting their flat.

Did he want John to take the initiative? Did he want John to pick him up or wrestle him into the bedroom? Should he be the one doing the wrestling? He didn’t know, and didn’t know how to break through this impasse.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, and John was looking down at him with quiet affection. His hand was still resting on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s lips were still warm from John’s kiss.

There was at least one thing he had no doubts about – Sherlock Holmes was in love. And he was sure that John Watson loved him. 

He tried to show his confidence by laying his hand over John’s, on his cheek, but John moved before he saw Sherlock’s intentions, and Sherlock momentarily had his own hand on his own cheek. They smiled ruefully at each other – another moment of clumsiness to add to the list.

“Dinner?” Sherlock said, to smooth over the moment.

“Starving,” John grinned. “Do we have anything in?”

“We do indeed.” Sherlock waved towards the stove. “Eggplant parmigiana.”

John opened the stove door and looked. “That looks amazing.” He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “You genius, you, I didn’t know you had this planned.”

“I didn’t.”

“Mrs Hudson,” they said together, and grinned.

“She dropped it off on her way to her sister’s,” Sherlock said. “She’s there for the weekend. She set the timer.”

“Fifteen more minutes, then.” John peeled his coat off.

Sherlock returned his attention to his microscope, but waved at the post that John had dumped on the table when he came in, before Sherlock had noticed he was there. “Anything interesting?”

John began sorting the post, subconsciously putting the bills as far from him as possible. “Hm, what’s this?”

Sherlock glanced up again to see John examining a large envelope, the kind lined with bubble wrap. He scanned it quickly, then shrugged. “Gift from a fan. Boring.”

“We should thank them at least,” John said, opening the envelope with a moderately clean knife that lay on the table. “Oh!” He dumped the contents of the envelope onto the table.

It was glass, scores of chunks of black, volcanic looking glass. Some pieces seemed to have silver running through it.

“I thought it was broken for a moment but I don’t think so,” John said. “Looks like… a puzzle maybe. Stella and Ted had something like this, only it was wood. If you put it together right it made a sphere.”

“I hate puzzles,” Sherlock said sourly. This happened all the time – stupid fans not understanding the difference between puzzles and mysteries, and sending him little trinkets like this. Usually he ignored them until he was in the throes of boredom, solved them in minutes, then handed them over to Mrs Hudson.

“I love puzzles. Spent hours on them when I was in Afghanistan. Red Cross would send them all the time.”

“Don’t touch it yet, John,” Sherlock said as John’s hand reached for the pile. “Any note?”

John checked the envelope. “No, nor a return address.”

“Litmus, please.”

John cocked an eyebrow at him, even as he crossed to the cupboard of chemistry supplies, next to the tea. “You think someone would poison it?”

“It would be a clever way to murder someone without detection.”

“I suppose.” John returned with a slip of litmus and held it to a piece of glass. “Non-reactive,” he said after a moment.

Sherlock shrugged. With no danger attached to the puzzle, his interest in it faded immediately. “I don’t want it, but if you do, have it. I didn’t know you liked puzzles.”

“I have depths, you know.”

“Of course you do, John. You are an endless source of curiosity for me.”

The words surprised even him, and he surprised himself further by looking up at John to see a look of wonder on his face.

_I love you. _

_But I can’t say it. Not yet. _

They stared at each other for a moment, and John began to move toward Sherlock, and the timer on the stove buzzed. 

They blinked, and smiled, and John stood up to get their dinner.

The meal was excellent, and they reminded each other to thank Mrs Hudson upon her return. They sat at the table in the sitting room, with John sat on Sherlock’s left, which allowed them to hold each other’s hand, and each of them still had their dominant hands free to eat. This sensation distracted Sherlock so thoroughly he didn’t notice that he completely finished his meal.

After dinner, Sherlock put away the leftovers and piled the dishes in the sink. Task completed, he turned to see John seated at the table next to his microscope, fiddling with the puzzle. He had already slotted a number of pieces together, and it was obvious the final shape would be a cube. John was thoroughly engrossed, so Sherlock sat back at his microscope and continued his current experiment.

They worked side by side for some time. John was unusually quiet; normally when John worked a crossword or Sudoku, Sherlock could track his progress by his mutterings and occasionally whispered curse. But now he was utterly silent, completely focused on the puzzle. Sherlock wondered if he himself looked like that when he was working or in his mind palace.

“Damn!”

Sherlock’s head jerked up. John had one fingertip in his mouth, his brows drawn tight in irritation. “Cut myself on a piece,” he said.

“No wonder, those edges are sharp,” Sherlock said. The glass was cut so precisely that some pieces came to a hair-thin, razor edge. “Do you need a plaster?”

“No thanks,” John said. He took his finger from his mouth and considered it. “It’s stopped already. I’m almost done, see?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, already turning his attention back to his microscope.

“It’s going to be quite pretty when it’s done. On the mantle, I think.”

“Hm.”

Silence fell again. Suddenly, the silk Sherlock had been testing with various chemicals began to oxidize – something Sherlock had been waiting for all day. He sat up straighter, and adjusted the focus on the scope.

“There! Done!”

“Well done,” Sherlock said absently.

“Sherlock.”

“Excellent.”

“Sherlock.”

“Just a moment, John, the reaction’s begun, I must monitor this for another forty-five seconds.”

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice abruptly shifted from his normal tone to a scream. Sherlock looked up, startled, and John was gone.


	2. I run to the rock, please hide me

“John?”

The chair was empty, the table clear but for the completed puzzle, black and square and silver.

“John?”

No responding call of “Just a mo!” from the loo or the bedroom.

“John!”

Sherlock stood, his experiment forgotten. There was something about John’s voice when he called, something that made the hair on Sherlock’s body stand up, that made his clothes itch. He had _ screamed_. He had screamed, and John Watson did not scream. He shouted, certainly, he yelled; when he was irritated with Sherlock, or wanted to get his attention. But John had _ screamed_, and there was real fear in the sound.

The last time Sherlock had heard that tone in John’s voice, he had been standing on the roof of St. Barts.

Quickly he made a tour of the flat, calling John’s name as he went. Not Sherlock’s bedroom, not John’s bedroom (_smelling of him_), not the loo, not the hallway. He ran down the stairs, and found the front door locked, the latch still in place. (_no sign of forced entry_)

There had been times when, during a squabble, John had gone for a walk, ‘needing some air’. In those cases, it was obvious what he was doing. John’s descent down the stairs had a certain echo to the stomp, a sharpness to the slam of the door. He could even sound pissed off when he turned the key. But Sherlock had heard none of that. Just the scream, then nothing at all.

The certainty was rising in his gut that John had been taken against his will. Because it was impossible for John to vanish into thin air.

Sherlock returned upstairs and checked each of the windows. All were firmly closed, for it was February-cool outside, and locked, as they always were after the incident with The Woman (_in my bed, where she didn’t belong; should have known then, should have known_). No traces of blond-grey hair or blood on the sills.

He grabbed his laptop, pushing the microscope roughly out of the way. The silk he had been experimenting on fell to the ground, unnoticed. (_unimportant_.) He hacked into his brother’s CCTV system, and scanned the footage from the cameras he knew were focused on the front and back doors of 221B. Nothing but a stillness and calm that Sherlock could no longer feel inside himself.

A sense of dread was spreading over him, trickling under his skin and along the roots of his hair.

He forced himself to calm, knowing that panic could cause him to miss a key observation. He stood and slowly scanned the sitting room and the kitchen for any sign of disturbance. He knew John Watson well, and he knew that if he had been taken by force, he would have fought tooth and nail. (_proof of that, far too many times, my fault_) But nothing was out of place, neither a magazine nor a mote of dust.

Then he looked at the carpet.

Mrs Hudson had hoovered the day before, and the nap of the carpet lay flat and even – except for four long lines, just in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock threw himself on the ground to examine the lines more thoroughly. Four lines, parallel, roughly a centimetre between them. They were not exactly even, but the one on the far right was shorter than the others. There was an indistinct smear on the left. The pile of the carpet faced towards the south wall of the flat, but the lines stood tall and arching towards the north, towards the fireplace.

Sherlock shuffled around until he was facing the south wall as well. Now the shorter line lay on the left, the muddle on the lower right.

He thought about John’s hands. Small, delicate – a surgeon’s hands. (_beautiful hands_.) Sherlock had spent many hours contemplating John’s hands, comparing them to his own. Sherlock’s fingers were all of different lengths, his middle finger the longest and the pinky the shortest of all; but John’s fingers were nearly all the same length, with his pinky only a bare centimetre shorter than the others.

Sherlock hovered his own hand over the marks. Observed the differences in width, the parallel patterns of the lines, the comparative height of the carpet pile. He came to a conclusion he did not wish to make.

John Watson’s hand had clawed these marks into the carpet, while he was being dragged.

Sherlock turned and examined the fireplace. John was not a tall man, standing at one hundred sixty nine centimetres, his arms seventy-two centimetres, shoulder to fingertip. The marks were a mere ninety centimetres in front of the fireplace, which meant that if John’s hand was making these marks at that place in the carpet, most of his body would have to have been _ inside _ the fireplace. But the ashes of last night’s fire lay undisturbed in the hearth.

Impossible.

Sherlock was quite aware that when he worked, he often slipped into a deep, focused state, and time would pass without him noticing his surroundings. But this time he hadn’t been in such a state - only engrossed in the results of his experiment. It strained his credulity to believe that an intruder would somehow enter the flat, take John from his side, pull him up and into the fireplace, John fighting the whole way, all in a moment - and Sherlock not notice at all.

Impossible.

For no reason that he could discern, Sherlock looked away from the carpet, away from the hearth, and up at the table in the kitchen. The puzzle lay in pieces.

Sherlock stood and walked over to the puzzle, his brows wrinkled in confusion. John had assembled it. He had _ finished _ it. Granted, Sherlock had not paid full attention to the puzzle, but he remembered distinctly it sitting on the table, a whole cube, approximately thirteen centimetres on all sides, shining with the black glass and silver. The silver had made an intricate and symmetrical pattern. Now it was lying in pieces as if John had never touched it.

He sat at the table opposite the pieces, slowed his breath, pressed his hands together in front of his mouth, and addressed the problem.

The facts: John had been in the flat, and now he was not. There was zero evidence of forced entry, nor of forced exit, but for the marks in the carpet.

John had shown no indications that he was going to leave under his own power. There had been a note of distress in his voice before he disappeared. (_he screamed he screamed not now focus focus_) Sherlock forced his clenched fists to relax.

Therefore it was most likely he had been taken against his will, and the marks of the carpet were the only evidence.

The only incident of note prior to his disappearance and his (_scream_) vocalization of distress was the completion of the puzzle.

The moment that Sherlock had discovered evidence of John’s removal (_clawing at the carpet fighting hard calling for me no no focus_) the puzzle had disassembled. Again, despite the absence of anyone else in the flat.

The puzzle was somehow the key to John’s disappearance.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He stood, went to the bedroom, changed from his dressing gown into a suit jacket. He put on his shoes.

One of the laws of science and experimentation that Sherlock lived by was this: when the data doesn’t add up, recreate the circumstances.

Sherlock sat at the table, where John had sat, and stared at the puzzle pieces. He thought of everything John had said or done since he had walked into the lab at Barts so long ago. He thought of everything they had said and done together since they first kissed.

John had only been gone perhaps half an hour, but Sherlock missed him, missed him like a heartbeat, like a gulp of air on the Millennium Bridge. After his fall off the roof of St. Barts, he had felt a small twinge of regret and longing at leaving John. Then, his own arrogance had drowned it out. This was different. Whatever it took to get him back, no matter how illogical and nonsensical it was, Sherlock would do it.

He picked up two pieces of the puzzle, and slid them together.

Just because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t like puzzles doesn’t mean he’s not good at them. He would admit that this puzzle was more difficult than most he had deigned to try, yet its shape slowly began to form under his hands. The smooth surfaces of the pieces were soft under his hands, and each one sliding into place were almost soothing. Sherlock’s entire focus narrowed to the puzzle.

Finally, only one piece remained, and one slot where it obviously must go. Sherlock took a deep breath, and slipped it into place.

Nothing happened.

Sherlock stared, gritting his teeth at his own foolishness. He had wasted time on this, when he could have been searching the streets. He had recreated the circumstances, and it hadn’t worked. Now what? He supposed his last resort would be to call Mycroft, who would be slimy and patronizing, who would ask questions about whether they had fought, and ‘_perhaps Dr. Watson needed some space, Sherlock’ _ and Sherlock would have to punch his smug face until blood ran down his –

_ Wait. _

He hadn’t recreated the circumstances exactly. John had cut his finger.

It was ludicrous, it made no sense, and Sherlock was laughing, half mad, as he picked the last piece out again and gazed at the sharp edges of it.

_ When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _

A line of blood appeared quickly on his finger beneath the puzzle piece, though it was so sharp that Sherlock felt no pain. He paused, letting his blood smear across the smooth black surface of the puzzle. Then he slid the piece into place, completing the puzzle.

Light began to leak out from the silver tracings of the puzzle, dancing over Sherlock’s face. Before he could draw a second astonished breath, the sound of bells ringing came from behind him, from the sitting room – low and ominous. He turned around in his chair, and saw that the fireplace had cracked open, like an enormous door. Light was streaming out from this doorway, brighter than any artificial or natural source of light Sherlock had seen before. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes.

The light was broken by a figure, walking through the entranceway.


	3. The rock cried out, I can’t hide you

Sherlock’s mind was trying to reel out of control, panicking at the sight before him: the fireplace split open and emitting a bright, cold light, and the figure emerging from the entrance.

The figure was tall and humanoid, and there its normalcy ended. It wore black, sweeping clothes, majestic and awful; tight down to its hips then flaring out, like a priest’s robes. Its trunk was encased in almost corset-like binding, with gaps of pale flesh peeking out of holes, evenly spaced down its torso. What flesh Sherlock could see was neatly flayed and pierced. Most shocking of all was the figure’s head: pierced to the bone with geometrically precise pins or nails, covering its entire face, neck and skull. Yet no pain registered on its face; instead it was serene, calm, and perhaps a little bored. This frightened Sherlock more than anything else about the creature’s appearance.

“Once more we are called to this place,” the figure said. Its voice was even and modulated, neither male nor female, and the sound of it made Sherlock cold to his bones. “It is rare to be summoned twice to the same spot here above, yet we are summoned again. Explain.”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry, but he fought to maintain his own calm. “You have taken something of mine, I believe.”

The creature’s head tilted to the side minutely, as if in curiosity. “You do not fear us?” it said, ignoring Sherlock’s claim.

“I fear only to lose what you have taken.”

“Do you know what you have done, human?”

_ Human? Interesting_. “Apparently I have summoned you. From where, and exactly how, I don’t know.”

“How?” It nodded at the cube still lying on the table, its black and silver sides glittering in the cold light emanating from the doorway. “You have solved the Rendering Configuration. For thousands of years we have answered the call of the Rendering, bringing those who have solved it to our territories.”

“And where are your territories?”

It smiled, very faintly. “Hell.”

_ If this is a dream, it is a terrible one_, Sherlock thought. He forced himself to focus. “Is that where you took John?”

“The one who solved before you? Yes. He called us, and we came.”

Sherlock felt rage rising up from his belly through his spine; he gritted his teeth to hold it back. “He did _ not _ call you. We did not know the purpose of this puzzle; it was sent to us as a gift, a… toy.”

“The Rendering Configuration puzzle box is not a _ toy_.” For the first time, the expressionless face broke into a snarl.

_ Ah. Pride. _ This could be the way past this creature, the way to John. “We don’t know who sent it to us,” Sherlock pressed. “We didn’t know its purpose. John didn’t intend to call you. You’ve made a mistake.”

The creature snarled, and as if in answer, Sherlock heard the snap-rattle of chains. From all directions, from nowhere, chains tipped with sharp hooks rocketed towards Sherlock’s body. Sherlock barely had time to draw a startled breath before the chains froze, the hooks pressed up against his body. A mere ounce more of pressure, and he knew the hooks would pierce his skin and tear him apart.

“Watch your words, human,” the creature purred. “Pay due respect to the Priest of Hell.”

Sherlock fought the adrenaline coursing through his body, and forced his heartbeat to slow, his voice to steady. He could do nothing about the droplets of sweat forming on his skin, curling down his face and around the raw, stinking metal of the hooks. _ Be careful, _ he thought. _ Be smart. Get John, that is all that matters. _

“I meant no disrespect, Priest,” he said. “Yet a mistake has been made. John did not intend to call you.”

The Priest stared at Sherlock, clearly considering. “And… John… is the something of yours you say was taken from you?”

“He is more mine than yours,” Sherlock said, and hissed involuntarily as the hooks pressed a little harder.

“I recall this human, this ‘John’,” the Priest said. “He solved the puzzle quickly, quicker than most. Clever, for a human.”

“Of course John’s clever,” Sherlock snapped. “He’s a doctor and an army captain.”

“You solved it even faster.”

“Of course I did, I’m Sherlock Holmes. Doesn’t make John any less clever.”

Sherlock thought he saw the flicker of a smile cross the Priest’s face, causing the pins around his mouth to move a fraction, but then it was gone. “We observe, from below, you realize,” it said. “We see you. We have watched you. You are intelligent. You are shrewd. You are ruthless.”

“Yes. When the need arises.”

“You are familiar with pain.”

“…Yes.”

“You bear the mark of the whip, the lash, the chain, the pipe.”

Before Sherlock could draw another breath, he felt the searing pain of every mark on his body rearing up as though fresh. The flaming bite of each blow he had received in Serbia, in Venezuela, in Vietnam, roared hot and bitter as they had the moment they were given. Sherlock couldn’t help the half scream that jumped from his mouth, but he pressed his lips together and willed it back.

“We could offer you this,” the Priest crooned. “We can offer you all you desire and more. We invite you to walk the knife edge of pleasure and pain. You could become a great Acolyte, a Devotee in Hell.”

Sweat was now pouring freely down Sherlock’s face, down his back and chest. The hooks against his face pressed against him, almost a caress.

“No,” he spat. “I only wish to take back what you stole from me.”

“Disappointing,” the Priest said. A tiny flicker of his finger, and the pain dropped away from Sherlock like a heavy cloak. The hooks retreated, vanishing with a harsh rattle. Sherlock fought against the shock of remembered pain and the fear in his bloodstream, and stood tall and imperious.

“You bore those blows willingly, for the sake of another,” the Priest said. “You chose the pain.”

Sherlock observed the neat rolls of skin held back by hooks on the Priest’s belly. “I did – but they did not bring me pleasure.”

“Ah,” it sighed dismissively. “Loyalty. Sacrifice. _ Love_.”

Sherlock raised his chin high. “Yes.” How odd, he thought, that the first time he admitted this out loud would be to this creature, and not John.

“Love.” The Priest sneered. “I have walked the road between Hell and Earth for a millennia, escorted millions back to my domain. All pleaded with me. They begged. Many spoke of love. Many offered to sacrifice their bodies for the sake of the one they professed to love. And yet, once they reached my domain and touched the fate of their souls, not one maintained this promise, and instead begged for their own deliverance. Love does not survive Hell, human.”

_ Ah_. Finally, something that Sherlock could work with. This creature was human, once, and clearly made a deliberate choice to become what it was. This was not the first time it had mentioned the passage of time, of millennia, of what it had already seen countless times. Sherlock understood that, how everything one did and saw became just one more drop in the pool of _ ennui _ that he could drown in.

So, there was one thing, one tiny thing he had in common with this thing – _ boredom_.

“A wager, then,” Sherlock said.

A faint whisper of surprise passed across the Priest’s face, and was gone. “You wish to bet against Hell?”

“Not against Hell – against you.”

“I _ am _ Hell, human.”

Sherlock shrugged, working against all his instincts in order to appear nonchalant. “However you wish. You believe that love cannot survive Hell? I am willing to prove you wrong. All I ask is for John to return with me, should I win the wager.”

“And if you lose?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Name it.”

“You become my Acolyte, and walk the blade for eternity.”

Bile rose up in Sherlock’s gorge, and he swallowed it back. _ Anything for John_. “Done.”

The creature nodded and stepped aside, gesturing towards the doorway. “Then find your John, and prove your point. I will not interfere, but neither will I protect you from the vagaries of my domain.”

Sherlock looked around. The warm cosiness of the Baker Street sitting room was bathed in bright, cold, bluish light from the entranceway behind the Priest. Only an hour ago he had been eating dinner with John, comfortable, and still feeling out the edges of their new relationship. And now he was betting his life and John’s on the strength of that relationship.

But if he didn’t have John, there was no reason for anything else. He had lived without John before and was not willing to do it again in his lifetime.

He gave a sharp nod to the Priest, and walked through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t believe that Pinhead is ever actually referred to as Pinhead in the Hellraiser canon; or rather that’s not what he calls himself - that’s a name that popular culture has given to him. I have seen references to him calling himself Priest, and so that’s what I’m doing here. But we all know who we’re talking about, right?


	4. I run to the river, it was bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is Hell.
> 
> This is where one sees and experiences every horrible moment in one’s life – that’s meant to be the horror of it. Warnings for child physical abuse, homophobic language and actions, violence, war, deep seated insecurities manifesting, and some of the scarier moments in Sherlock and John’s life.
> 
> I also made a conscious decision to NOT delve into the horrors of S3 and S4, as they didn’t really fit with the narrative I wanted to tell here.
> 
> I am also promising you a happy ending.

There was an echoing boom behind him, and Sherlock knew the door to Baker Street had closed. The dazzling light which had appeared when the doorway had opened faded immediately, and he was left blinking for a moment, trying to get his bearings in an alien landscape.

The first thing he noticed was the cold. No, he corrected himself, not cold, not so simple as ‘cold’; rather the complete absence of heat – the temperature of a land that had never seen sun, never had warmth. As the light vanished, he saw a world of grey, an infinite number of shades of grey, and he knew this was a world that had never seen colour either.

He was surrounded by walls. Just high enough that he couldn’t jump to scale them, but low enough that he could see the landscape all around him. Walls, jutting out at odd angles, as far as he could see. A labyrinth, a maze, a trap for a rat, stretching out to infinity.

For a moment, helplessness washed over him. How could he possibly find John in a place like this? And even if by some miracle he found him, how could he get back to Baker Street? Sherlock looked behind him, wanting one more glimpse of the warmth of their sitting room, but all he saw behind him was more walls, more corridors.

He pressed his lips together. He had made a deal with the Priest. He would find John, somehow, and then force the Priest to uphold his end of the bargain. He focused on the prize before him: the blue of John’s eyes before him, the warm and cozy rooms of Baker Street.

He began to walk, keeping a wall to his right. He knew that any maze could be figured out eventually, given patience and logic. Keep the wall on one side, follow it no matter what, and you will find the solution.

Out of curiosity, he let his fingers run along the wall beside him. The dull greyness of it led him to expect hard stone or concrete, but to his shock it was smooth and clammy and corpse-cold and slightly resilient, like the flesh of a dead sea animal. He pulled his hand back in disgust, and wiped it against his trouser leg. He made sure not to brush against it again.

He lost all sense of time as he walked down corridor after corridor. A sound carried just underneath his hearing, too low to discern what exactly it was. Sometimes it sounded like laughter, the laughter of boys, laughter behind hands and pointing fingers. Other times it was weeping, far away, as if in a bathroom stall or behind a bedroom door.

It wasn’t John’s voice, he reasoned, and therefore irrelevant. He tried to shut it out, but the sound bore into his ears and sharply down the edges of his nerves and sinews.

_ The blue of John’s eyes. The sitting room at Baker Street. _

Suddenly he heard something else – footsteps, ahead of him, light and fast. He quickened his pace, heart thumping with hope, barely restrained.

He rounded a corridor, and saw, to his surprise, a boy. He was tow-headed, his face dirty with tears and the dirt from his hands wiping the tears away. He hung just around a corner, staring at Sherlock, his body tensed to run.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, as gently as he could, as though the child was a starving dog who could bite or run or come for shelter. “Are you lost?”

After a long moment, the boy jerked his head in a nod.

“I am too, a bit,” Sherlock said. “I’m looking for someone. Are you looking for someone too?”

Another nod, like a puppet with tight strings.

“Shall we look together? Perhaps we can-”

A loud roar, a male voice, deep and rough, shouted, “Come here, you little bastard!”

The boy startled, his whole body flinching at the sound, and flickered away.

“Wait!” Sherlock called, and ran after him. He rounded the corner in time to see the child, caught roughly in the hands of a man. The man was stocky and built solidly around the shoulders, but Sherlock saw the paunch of middle age in the man’s belly, and alcoholism in the broken veins in his face. He gripped the boy’s shirt around the neck, and was shaking him hard.

“Catch you doing that again, you little faggot bastard!” he was screaming in the boy’s face.

“Leave him be!” Sherlock shouted.

Man and boy turned their heads to Sherlock. The boy was pale with fear; the man red-faced and snarling. But despite their differences in expression, Sherlock saw that they had the same eyes – a vivid blue. Suddenly Sherlock knew, without doubt, what he was seeing.

“John?” he said.

The man vanished, and the boy collapsed in a heap onto the hard grey floor.

Sherlock ran to the boy who was somehow John, his hands fluttering and unsure how to comfort. The boy was weeping, his hands covering his face.

“John, it’s all right now, it’s all right…”

“Where did he go? Where did he go?” the boy wailed.

“It’s all right, John.”

“I want my daddy!”

Sherlock stared at the child. “He’s – that wasn’t your father, John, not really, he’s-”

The boy stared at him, his eyes red-rimmed and wet and so very blue. “I don’t know you! Fuck off!”

“John-”

“Freak!”

The child pushed Sherlock away from him with inhuman strength. Sherlock expected the wall to smack him in the back, but with a gasp and a skin-crawling sensation, he passed through the wall. He found himself in another empty corridor, with no sign of the boy, and silence echoing around him.

Sherlock slammed his fist against the ground in frustration. He had been so close; there was no doubt in his mind that the boy had been John, and now he was gone and Sherlock had lost him again.

Sherlock had deduced some time ago that John had suffered abuse at home and that his father had eventually abandoned the family, but that knowledge was very different from seeing it before his eyes: the vulnerability of John the child at the hands of an adult who was supposed to protect him and care for him. It spoke to John’s own temper as an adult, and his trust issues.

But why had this scene played out here, in Hell? Ah, but that was itself the answer, wasn’t it? What is Hell, if not the worst moments of one’s life, one’s greatest fears, played out over and over again?

It was a terrible kind of intimacy to have seen this moment in John’s life, but Sherlock knew it meant one thing: he was on John’s trail. He was on the right path to find him.

Sherlock stood. He brushed at his trousers and straightened his jacket and collar. He drew his hands through his hair to neaten it. He looked down the corridor he had landed in, to the right and the left. He listened.

Off in the distance, very faintly, he heard gunfire.

He nodded to himself and turned towards the sound.

The rattle of gunfire was far away, until he turned a corner and suddenly it was all there in front of him: soldiers shouting, machine guns firing, and the smell of fear and dust and gunpowder and blood. He ducked instinctively, despite knowing in his head this wasn’t real, it was all an illusion in Hell, but he still shied away from the whistle of a bullet past his head.

“Get down!”

A fierce grip on his sleeve pulled him down gracelessly to the ground.

“Stay down,” a voice growled. Sherlock heard the rattle of plastic and metal, then the voice said, “Mayday, mayday, the Fifth is taking hostile fire and heavy mortar - do you read? We need backup, please send – copy? Copy?”

_ It’s not real, any of it_, Sherlock reminded himself as bullets thudded into the wall behind him, and yet he couldn’t help flinching. He glanced at the soldier – for a soldier it was, his fatigues matted with dust and grime and spatters of blood. The man’s face was blackened, but from the side Sherlock could see a flash of blue, and he _ knew_.

“John?”

“Mayday! Mayday! We require immediate – please copy!”

Sherlock knelt up, and pulled on John’s sleeve. “John, John, come on, let’s get out of here, come on-”

John looked up at Sherlock, his face blank and startled. “What are you doing here?” he shouted. “You shouldn’t be here! This is a war zone!”

“I’ve come to-” Sherlock started, then he heard and felt the whine of a bullet impact into his chest.

The pain was slow to come, but when it did it was like a stick of dynamite pushed into his belly and imploded. His body rolling forward, onto his face, the sand gritting into his skin, _ No, not forward, mustn’t fall forward, should fall backward - _

“Civilian down! Civilian down!” John shouted. He pushed Sherlock over until he lay on his back, _ that’s right, backwards, John, that’s right_. He could feel John ripping at his clothes to reveal the wound, but could only stare up at John’s face. “I need my med-kit!” John yelled, pushing his hands against the flow of blood; Sherlock felt John’s rough palms against the lips of the bullet hole. “I need my-”

Another whine, another thump, and Sherlock saw a red hole appear on John’s left shoulder. A spatter of blood and flesh and camouflage material exploded behind John. John’s body barely rocked with the impact, but an expression of fear and horror crossed his face immediately, and his body sank to the ground.

“No, John, no no no no!” Sherlock screamed. He twisted over to his side, ignoring the shriek of pain in his body, and crawled towards John. How was he so far away? Just a second ago, he had been right beside him. 

“John! John!”

John’s face turned towards Sherlock. His face was dreadfully pale, and a rill of blood traced down from his nose into his mouth. His eyes were fading.

“John!” Sherlock threw himself forward, reaching out to John, not quite reaching, not quite…

John’s brows were knotted in pain and concentration, and he was staring at Sherlock. He reached his hand out. “Sh-”

In the space of a breath, the noise, the dust, the wall, all dropped away into the greyness of the labyrinth. Sherlock looked desperately at John, grabbing for his hand. Then John slid away into the darkness, as though yanked by hidden strings, his hand still reaching out for Sherlock.

In the same moment, the pain fell away from Sherlock as well. He looked down at himself to see the pristine white of his shirt. No blood, no wound. Another illusion.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and swore. He had been so close, so close. John had recognized him, he was sure of it, had been about to say his name when he had been yanked away.

He stood and smoothed out his clothes, trying to master his anger. _ Focus _ , he thought. _ Focus on the goal. _

_ Wait. The goal? What was his goal again? _

_ Blue eyes. A chair. Whose eyes? Whose chair? John. Yes, John. And Baker Street. Yes. _

“Control,” he whispered to himself. “Now, more than ever, you’re so close. Control.”

“Ah, but isn’t losing control so much fun?”

He startled, but found himself held in place by hands, hands with sharp nails digging into his wrists. He felt the pressure of a body behind him, smelt the expensive perfume wafting from a lock of hair falling over his shoulder.

“Did I teach you nothing, Sherlock, dear? That everyone likes losing control, once you know what they like. Well, once _ I _ know what they like. What _ you _like.” Warm breath ghosted against his ear. “Let me help you, Sherlock. Let me know what you like.”

He gritted his teeth as her immaculately manicured hands caressed his waist, his hips. “I don’t want you. I _ never _ wanted you."

“Then why save me?”

“I should have just let you die, horribly, far from home? I admired your cleverness, your mind.”

“And not the body attached to it? Come now. I offered you so much for so little.”

“You knew what I really wanted, you know now. You know what I’m here for.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” The hands released but still caressed him, and the pressure against his back shifted as The Woman crossed in front of him. She was completely nude, as she was the first time he’d seen her, her hair coiled perfectly around her face, her skin glowing in the dullness of the grey corridor. “How very like you,” she crooned, “always wanting what you can’t have.”

He looked her in the eyes, refusing to allow her to draw his gaze downwards. “That’s not true anymore. He wants me now.”

“I don’t deny that, darling.” She leaned up and curled her arms around his neck. “But is he really _ yours_? Has he truly given himself? You’ve given yourself to him, in many ways, over and over. But has he given himself to you?”

“I – I -” A slow curl of doubt grew in his belly and worked its way up his throat, choking him. “He-” Sherlock took a deep breath, straightened his back, searched for his confidence. “There’s been no one for me but him. It’s John, or no one.”

“Ah,” The Woman sighed, purred, “but are you the only one for him?”

With a smirk, she nodded to her right. Sherlock looked, and wished he hadn’t.

Where there had been a wall, there was now a bedroom with a large bed, dimly lit with candles. On the bed, the sheets and covers tangled, was John and a woman, both nude. He was kissing her, having sex with her, her head was tipped back in ecstasy. Sherlock tried to recognize her as one of John’s former girlfriends, but her face constantly changed as she sighed with pleasure.

“There, you see, Sherlock dear?” The Woman said. “Do you see how foolish you’re being? John could have anyone he wants. Why would he want _ you _?”

Sherlock felt sick, bile rising up from his gut. He tried to look away but couldn’t, his head shaking slowly from side to side. “No. No.”

“What’s this?” The Woman’s smile slid from smirk to wolfish grin. “Doubt? Doubt isn’t sexy, you know.”

“I – he…”

“And be fair, Sherlock,” The Woman said. Her face was changing, growing rounder, her eyes changing to dark brown, her hair shortening, slicked back. Her voice deepened, lilted, became a sing-song. “You left him first.”

Then Sherlock was standing on the roof of St. Bart’s, his phone pressed to his ear, and Moriarty stood beside him.


	5. All on that day

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock heard John’s voice, tinny and tense, through the phone. He looked down and saw him, so small.

“Okay, look up, I’m on the rooftop,” Sherlock said.

John’s horrified look was clear on his face, even from this distance. Sherlock’s stomach turned over.

“I – I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

Sherlock was having the strangest feeling of _ déjà vu_, despite the tension of the situation. How could he have possibly done this before? And wasn’t he doing something else just now – looking for something?

“What’s going on?” John said, sharply.

“An apology,” Sherlock said. He felt like he was reading from a script, and couldn’t stop, his mind full of fog and buzzing. “It’s all true.”

“What?”

John looked so small, down on the pavement, but Sherlock could see every detail about him: the fold of the collar of his coat; the arch of his hand, curled around his phone. “Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

Sherlock looked around, and there, there was the body of Moriarty, lying, grinning, in a puddle of blood and brain.

“Bit gruesome, that,” said a voice to his right.

Sherlock turned, and saw Moriarty standing beside him, staring down at his own body. Moriarty was dressed in black robes, much like The Priest’s. His face was deathly pale, and his grin was held into place by hooks pulling the flesh of his lips back.

“Why are you saying this?” John said, below.

“You have to give me credit, really. It was a marvellous box I put you in,” Moriarty said, turning to Sherlock. “Nowhere to run to,” he sang softly, “nowhere to hide.”

“I’m a fake,” Sherlock found himself saying into the phone.

“You lied all the time,” Moriarty said. “But only to benefit yourself.”

“Now I’m lying to benefit John,” Sherlock said. “To save him.”

“But he never understood that, did he? Never believed you again, because you lied just when it mattered.”

“The newspapers were right all along,” Sherlock said into the phone. He thought about the line between truth and falsehood, between life and death, between love and hate. How thin that line could be.

“Shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister.”

“So loyal,” Moriarty purred. “I wonder why?”

“You set this up,” Sherlock said.

“Of course I did. Don’t forget the snipers, too. I love snipers.”

His brain cleared, just a little, just enough to allow him to think outside this macabre script. “No, I mean, this whole thing.” A memory, very faint, of Baker Street, an envelope with black glass pieces spilling over the table. “You sent us the puzzle box.”

“Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I still don’t have connections.”

“Nobody can be that clever.”

“You could,” John said.

“You told me you would shake hands with me in Hell,” Moriarty said, spreading his arms wide. “Well, here we are. We can shake hands for all eternity.”

“You sent us the puzzle box, to trap us, bring us here.”

Moriarty smiled, and his expression turned beatific. “This beautiful place, this place of dreams and nightmares. This place where all your worst moments, all your fears, every mistake you ever made, is played out for you over and over again. Ain’t it grand?”

Sherlock blinked. Like a shaft of lightning, his brain cleared, and he smiled. He chuckled.

“What?” Moriarty said dangerously.

“All right, stop it now,” John said.

“You said – all my worst moments, my fears, my mistakes. Mine… or John’s?”

“What?”

“All right, all right,” John said, placating, his hand held up as if to touch Sherlock, reassure him.

“Everything you’ve shown me, everything I’ve seen – are those my fears, or John’s?”

Moriarty’s eyes flickered, hesitated.

“John’s father’s abuse and homophobia – is experiencing it again the nightmare, or is my witnessing it the greater fear? Him being shot protecting me is my nightmare, but him seeing me shot is his. His jealousy of The Woman, my jealousy of the women he dated. Right now - John seeing me fall, or me having to make him watch.”

He grinned at Moriarty, victory lifting his head high. “You’ve failed. You’ve proven my point instead – that all of our fears are now entwined into each other. John and I are – interwoven. We can’t be separated.”

In the space of a blink, The Priest appeared behind Moriarty, the pins in his face glittering in the gloom. “Words,” it said. “Prove it.”

Sherlock lifted his chin in defiance, stared down the two grotesque figures. “I believe I will,” he said.

He turned back to John. John was staring up at him, anxious and afraid.

“John,” he said. “_Vatican cameos_.”

John instantly ducked and scuttled to take shelter in the lee wall of the building beside him. Sherlock could hear him panting slightly into the phone, adrenaline forcing his lungs to work.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“It’s a trick, it’s a trap,” he said. “There are snipers on you, on our friends, if I don’t jump.”

“I’m coming to you,” John said, and Sherlock heard the steel in his voice.

“Yes, come,” Sherlock said. “Be careful.”

Sherlock disconnected, and threw the phone away. It skittered against the roof, landing at the feet of The Priest.

“What are you doing?” Moriarty snarled, the hooks in his face tightening against the flesh.

“Changing the script,” Sherlock said. “This moment, this was my greatest mistake. This was the moment that changed everything, set John and me on a road that led to a great deal of pain. All because _ I thought that I had to do this alone_. What I didn’t realize is that I still could have succeeded with John at my side. If I had trusted him. I trust him now.”

Moriarty’s face was even paler than before, stunned. Then he shook himself minutely. “You expect John to come up here and rescue you? Sweep you off this roof like a damsel in distress, ride off into the sunset? Don’t forget the snipers, Sherlock. My box trap is still intact.”

The door to the rooftop banged open, and John was there. There was a smear of blood on his shirt, and his cheek was purpling into a bruise; he had clearly walked through his own Hell to get to Sherlock. His eyes darted around, looking for threats. He paused by Moriarty’s body but did not check for a pulse – it was clear it was no longer beating. He did not seem to see the Hell-Moriarty or The Priest. He scuttled over to Sherlock, keeping his head down, looking all around for threats; still the soldier. He saw Sherlock still standing on the roof’s edge, and his eyes widened in fear. “Sherlock? You okay?” he said.

“Yes and no,” Sherlock said. Despite the danger of the situation, he couldn’t help smiling at John. “There are snipers on us, but they won’t shoot – yet.”

“What are you talking about?” John was looking at the buildings around them, trying to spot the shooter.

“Moriarty told me to jump, or he would shoot you. And Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. Then he…” Sherlock nodded towards Moriarty’s body, behind him. “…he shot himself rather than risk giving me the code that would call them off. The snipers are waiting to see me jump. No doubt we are in their sights right now, but they’d rather I jump, and complete Moriarty’s plan.”

Sherlock could see John thinking through options and possibilities, and discarding them just as Sherlock had. _ My clever John_. “What do we do then?” John said at last.

“There’s only one way to save them all.”

John stared at him, his eyes steady and level and so very blue.

“At worst, it’s death on the pavement below. At best, it’s a very long time away from home, and hunger and cold and torture.”

John pursed his lips, his brow creasing.

Sherlock took a deep breath, steadied himself in the blue of John’s eyes. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I tried to make you leave me. I’m sorry I made you watch me. I’m sorry I never told you… how important you are to me.” John’s mouth dropped open, but his eyes were soft. “I’m a better man with you beside me, John Watson. I was a fool to not see that earlier.”

A very small part of Sherlock wanted to glance at Moriarty and The Priest, to gauge their reaction to this turn of events, but John was holding his gaze, and he couldn’t turn away if he tried.

John licked his lips. Was this indecision? Would John stand back, let Sherlock fall? The moment slowed to a crawl, time freezing all around this moment.

“I was so alone when I met you,” John said at last. “You saved me. You saved me, over and over again. I’m a better man with you as well. I’d - I’d rather not be without you, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock’s heart was beating double time, as if it was trying to push him closer to John. “And you’ve saved me. But, John. Are you sure?” he said.

John’s answer was to step up to the roof’s edge next to him, and take his hand. “Quite sure,” he said with a quiet, determined smile.

Sherlock now afforded a glance to Moriarty and The Priest. Moriarty was shaking with rage, but the Priest had a small smile on its face, obvious even through the pins. John squeezed his hand, bringing his attention back. John’s hand was warm, and it was the first warmth Sherlock had felt since he had left Baker Street.

Sherlock looked once more at John, then out at the city stretching out in front of them. Then, hand in hand, in unison, they tilted forward and fell.

There was rushing wind, and laughter that sounded like weeping, and screaming whispers. They were falling, first through the air with the pavement of St. Barts rising up before them, then through darkness and blood, hooks and chains, then brilliant light.

Then they were in the sitting room of their home on Baker Street.

Light was still emanating from the fireplace, and Sherlock could just see The Priest standing in the gap. It nodded, as if in agreement with something, and the gap closed.

Silence. Then a bird chirped outside, and a lorry drove down the street.

Sherlock turned to John, still grasping his hand, and saw John’s face open and lax with confusion and astonishment. As one, they turned to look into the kitchen, at the table with black glass pieces strewn across it. Then the glass pieces of the puzzle box faded away in the space of a breath, as if they were never there.

“What just happened?” John said. His voice seemed to echo around the room, through all of London.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. His memory reached out but found nothing. All he could think about was the sensation of John’s hand in his.

“John?” he said, though he wasn’t sure what he was asking.

But John answered him nonetheless, pulling him close and kissing him.

Sherlock gasped into the kiss. His heart pounded as though blood had only just begun to circulate through his veins. He returned this kiss, trying to express with his mouth and skin and hands, everything he had thought and felt about John since the day they had met. John pulled back a little, his face open and trusting and full of joy.

With one mind, they walked away from the sitting room, through to the bedroom.

Twilight was shimmering through the curtains as they undressed each other, unhurriedly. There was no urgency in their actions, no frantic stripping of clothing, but rather a kind of dreamy certainty. Sherlock felt it, as surely as if the words were written on the wall – _ I love you. I chose you. I will always choose you. _

The soft bed accepted them with its own embrace. Their entire world was reduced to skin and fingertips, sweat and soft kisses, twining limbs and tongue. Sherlock gasped as John entered him, or was he sliding into John’s body? He didn’t know, it didn’t matter, all that mattered was John here with him, and he with John.

Their bodies sighed, and tensed, and sighed again, then cried out in pleasure and release. As they calmed, the last memories of Hell faded away like a dream, a terrible nightmare to be remembered fleetingly and then gone again. 

Sherlock stared into John’s eyes, curled into his arms, and thought not of Hell, nor of fear or blood or rooftops, but only in the certainty of love.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to my wonderful betas, @missdaviswrites, @besina, and @stilltheaddict, for challenging me and letting me know what worked and what didn't.
> 
> MANY thanks to @discordantwords, who bid on me for @FandomTrumpsHate, and gave me the courage to write it.
> 
> And for all the readers who followed along. Thank you for believing in love, even in the depths of hell.


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